


A World of Pure Imagination

by fem_castielnovak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bittersweet, M/M, POV Castiel, Rain, Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/fem_castielnovak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel dreams.</p><p>He dreams of a life where he and Dean can be together in so many ways. Ways that they can't be together here and now, at the end of it all.</p><p>Sometimes he dreams of what it would be like if he somehow found a way to be with Dean who wasn't Dean. </p><p>The versions who could have existed, the versions who never did, the versions created by imagination and deduction or theory alone. </p><p>He wonders if it would be easier that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A World of Pure Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> This is short because it was supposed to be an ending to my Odds and Ends series but then I realized that I don’t hate myself or any of you that much so yeah, this is completely separate.

 

 

Castiel dreams.

He dreams of a life where he and Dean can be together in so many ways. Ways that they can't be together here and now, at the end of it all.

Sometimes he dreams of what it would be like if he somehow found a way to be with Dean who wasn't Dean. 

The versions who could have existed, the versions who never did, the versions created by imagination and deduction or theory alone. 

He wonders if it would be easier that way.  
Castiel thinks it would.

He thinks that, now – as he is – in all his depravity, he would particularly like to know Dean Smith; the Dean that Zachariah manipulated into existence. 

That Dean would let Cas teach him yoga. That Dean would spend weekends in bed with him, then take him to his parent's house for dinner. That Dean would let himself be spoiled and take baths with Cas and wear nice things that made Dean feel like he was only wearing a second skin. Dean deserved nice things.

That Dean would learn to (be able to) listen when Cas whispered praise and poetry into his skin. That Dean would feel, would hear Castiel's philosophy and theology and lack of hope and it would reverberate beautifully in his bones, eliciting a comfort from Dean that Cas can't get here and now.

Not that they don't find comfort in each other.  
But there are so many more ways they could be doing so and aren't; are unable to. 

Castiel doesn't dare to mourn for that. He's already done so. He's over his mourning for the world. Mourning doesn't help; it won't resurrect comrades or give way to flight on broken wings. And it certainly won't give him a Dean that never really existed.

He tolerates, even supports Dean's crusade. But to him, pleasure is all that remains to be pursued.

Tonight his bed is shared by two women and a man who reminds him of Balthazar. He'd found a rare, pleasant string of memories in the man's smirk and nonchalance, and the haze of drugs had broken the barrier in his mind that separated amicable comfort from blissful gratification.

He gets up and moves to the open doorway of his cabin. It was a warm night and the room needed airing. He looks right, then left, then up, just to gauge his surroundings. Just to see if it's still as bad as he remembers. 

He turns to the ladder permanently propped against his roof; his stairway to heaven.

Dean ends up humming the tune on the occasions he follows Cas up here.

When he settles, Cas closes his eyes:  _one, two, three - open_!

The beauty of the night sky never fails to surprise him. In this dark and putrid ruin of a world, the stars gleam because for them nothing is awry. Billions of miles away through time and space they shine on as if they have not died or dimmed. And Castiel can see them - all the way out here in countryside void of light pollution. 

Long-ago government mandates for blackouts have fallen obsolete when candles are cheaper than the fossil fuels it takes to run generators. Cas wonders why the Croats aren't attracted to candlelight. Perhaps it's some animalistic fear of fire that resides in them still, when they're void of all else definitively human.

Cas watches a cloud (more of a vapor really) as it flits over the moon and dissipates. It feels familiar, a sort of déjà vu, as though he can relate to once being the conglomeration of water and air particulates.

Cas thinks if he had not reached a level of transcendence he would be a ghost of his former self.

He knows Dean sees him that way. But Dean has yet to transcend. Try as he might, there is only so much that Castiel can teach and do for the man. 

Love is not all powerful. 

From his shingled throne, Cas surveys the territory of Camp Chitaugua. Nothing but an orange speck catches his eye: Dean stands smoking on his cabin's porch. He leans heavily on the railing staring at God knows what. It's not as if he doesn't know this camp like the stretch of Castiel's throat - something he has mapped time and again with fervor by fingertip and eye and mouth and tongue and teeth and ...

His face is shrouded in shadow anyways. All Castiel can see is a silhouette with moonlit arms and the faintest trace of lips lit by orange, glowing ash. Even that disappears when Dean shifts his weight to one arm and pinches the cigarette from his mouth, propping it between two fingers as he returns to his former position. He sighs out a world-weary breath. Cas is fascinated and something akin to surprised when he watches the moonlight illuminating the lungful of smoke escaping into the night.

He remembers teaching Dean to smoke. Using shotgunning as an excuse to kiss the man he'd pined over for so long. Gracing them both with consolation in a dying world. He wonders if the fictional Dean would want to learn. He marvels at the thought of the ever composed Dean Smith he'd glimpsed, sucking the smoke from his lips with the same hunger that his Dean had once done so.

Dean had stopped asking for shots - hadn't asked in years. Cas could sometimes convince him to take a few when he lit up as they lay tangled in one or the other's sheets. He wouldn't refuse if Cas offered the right way. But sometimes he thinks when the refusals do happen, it’s because Dean got nostalgic about it. Nostalgia hurts him, Cas thinks, and yet the man lets it pervade so much of his life - too much really. It isn't healthy. Well, no. They can live with unhealthy. It isn't  _feasible_. Not when there's so little left to be had that's untainted or at least appreciable. 

Cas lies back on the roof beneath him. The stars remain one of those untainted things. The rain another. He can see storm clouds in the far distance. Perhaps it will rain by morning. Croats don't cover their tracks and the mud will make them sloppy, easy targets. He exhales.

It would be lovely to wake to softly rolling thunder and water droplets abrading his senses.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Exits are to your left, your right, and your rear, restrooms are to the front, Kudos and comments are found below, and as always very appreciated. Thank you for flying Air fem-castielnovak.


End file.
